


take it standing, take it kneeling

by star_sky_earth



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Breathplay, D/s dynamic, Deep Throating, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Humiliation, Loving Degradation, Name-Calling, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Slut Shaming, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29939409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/star_sky_earth/pseuds/star_sky_earth
Summary: Bellamy laughs, and it’s still early enough in this that it’s soft and amused, brown eyes warm behind his glasses. “You know that’s not how it works, Clarke. You have to ask.”She swallows, mouth dry.“Use me."
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 180





	take it standing, take it kneeling

Clarke drops her keys on the hallway table, kicking the front door shut behind her. She sighs as she slips off her heels, looking forward to pulling on some sweats, removing her make-up and - most importantly - taking off her bra. The underwire gives her a killer cleavage, straining the buttons of her shirt more than is strictly professional, but it also digs into her ribcage like nothing else, leaving livid red marks on her pale skin that take hours to fade. 

“Hi,” she calls out, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it neatly on the hook by the door. 

“Hey,” Bellamy shouts back from the bedroom, voice rough like he’s just woken up. She hears bedsprings creak, the distant thump of his feet hitting the floor. “Be out in a sec.”

Clarke nods to herself, rubbing her hands together as she takes stock of the open-plan living area. It’s been a long week, college deadlines and work obligations colliding with all the force of an atom bomb, and their small one-bedroom apartment shows the fallout. Abandoned mugs and textbooks adorn every flat surface, a small pyramid of empty energy drink cans teetering on the coffee table, and she doesn’t even need to look at the sink to know that it’s overflowing with dirty dishes - the site of their own personal war of attrition, both of them holding out on doing the washing-up in the hope that the other will give in first. 

Still, it’s Friday night, staring down a well-deserved weekend of doing absolutely nothing, and bright spring sunlight filters through the sliding balcony doors, a sign that the desolate grip of winter is finally loosening. In the golden hour light, the chaotic scene looks almost cosy, something warming in Clarke’s chest at the unrestrained _domesticity_ of it all, the proof of two lives lived together, so closely entwined. 

She pads over to the fridge on bare feet, opening it and leaning over to peer in. The contents are singularly uninspiring, and she hums, considering. 

“You wanna get takeout?” she asks as Bellamy comes out of the bedroom, not bothering to look up. “We desperately need to get groceries tomorrow.”

“Takeout sounds good.” Bellamy’s hand ghosts across the curve of her back, a brief moment of warmth through the thin cotton of her shirt, and then he’s gone, walking past her to the sink. He turns on the tap, the water sputtering briefly before it settles, and a cabinet door bangs as he gets a glass, fills it up. “I’m sorry I’ve been so useless this week.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, waving a hand dismissively somewhere in his direction. No matter how long she stares into the empty fridge, a cold beer isn’t going to magically materialise out of nowhere, and so she sighs again, straightening up and closing the door. She cricks her neck from side to side, reaching up to dig into the sore muscles with the heel of her palm. “Did you get the paper in on time?”

“Just about, but it was a close one. That guy didn’t get back to me about the citation until like, twenty minutes before the deadline.”

“You know, sometimes it’s okay to settle for a 99% grade instead of the full one hundred,” Clarke quips, turning to finally face him, and she sees him open his mouth to reply, registers dimly that he’s talking - but, honestly, it’s all white noise. Static, a soft and persistent buzzing in her ears, from the moment her eyes fall on him. 

Bellamy’s wearing sweatpants. That in itself should be unremarkable - he’s been living in sweats for the past few days, and if she ever sees that blue hoodie again she’s throwing it out of the fucking window - but it’s the way he’s wearing them that gets her, stops her in her tracks, breath catching in her throat. Grey sweatpants, riding just low enough on his narrow hips that she knows he’s not wearing anything underneath, a soft line of dark hair arrowing downwards from his navel, dragging her eyes down with it, making her bite her lip. He’s wearing glasses, those round black frames that make him look disarmingly innocent, curly hair still dischevelled from the afternoon nap he’s only just woken up from, and there’s even a light dusting of stubble across his sharp jaw - unusual, considering how long it takes him to grow facial hair.

Clarke knows all about pheromones. She’s a med student after all, or at least she is when she’s not working lousy temp office jobs, and she’s already forgotten more about the human body than most people learn in a lifetime, a stack of biology textbooks on her desk a foot high. She’s sat through enough lectures on chemistry to understand the science of attraction, the interlocking chains of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen that cause pupils to dilate and blood vessels to swell, the complex web of genetics and reproductive signalling that combine to produce the mirage of love, the ghost that powers the eternal machine. In the lab, it’s easy to believe that desire can be disected and understood, catalogued and defined, broken down into its constituent parts and pinned into place as neatly as a butterfly on a board. There are no mysteries in science; only equations, waiting, patiently or not so patiently, to be balanced. 

But then, also, there is this. The click of the wheel, flint sparking, the soft whoosh of ignition, conflagration, devastation. Desire blooming, thick and black on her tongue like rolling smoke, blood turning to kerosene in her veins. 

It’s all she can do not to fall to her knees, right there and then.

Bellamy downs his glass of water as she walks over. His lips are wet, parted. A droplet of moisture clings to the white scar on his upper lip, making it shine in the late afternoon light.

“What do you wanna order?” he’s asking, but she’s already sinking to her knees in front of him, tracing her nails down over the sharp outline of his hips, running her hands up the front of his thighs. He cocks an eyebrow as he looks down at her, amused, and she leans forward, mouthing the soft bulge of his cock through his sweatpants. 

“That’s nice,” he says, casual, almost offhand, like she’s just bought a new throw cushion or showed him a flattering picture of a mutual acquaintance online, and _asshole_ , he knows just what that does to her, the hot twist of humiliation that tightens her chest and sends blood rushing, pulsing to her cunt. He puts the empty glass down on the counter with a _clink_. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Clarke doesn’t answer, too busy nuzzling against him through the fabric, inhaling the musky warm sleep scent of him, so familiar and pleasantly masculine. She laves her tongue over his cock through the cotton, and the sensation is unpleasant, the dry material catching, but that’s part of it too, the chosen discomfort of it, like the pain of her knees on the hard floor. His cock is hardening now, beneath her mouth, and she squeezes her thighs together, her panties already soaked and clinging. 

Blindly she reaches up to pull his sweatpants down, but she’s barely tightened her fingers around the waistband before Bellamy wraps his hands firmly around her wrists, holding her in place, stilling her movements. 

“What’s this?” All traces of sleep are gone from his voice now, replaced with something sharp and questioning, razor-edged. Because he can, he transfers both of her wrists into the iron grip of one broad hand, holding them pinned against his stomach. With his other hand he reaches down to stroke her hair, gathering it into a loose ponytail. The angle is awkward, the height difference extreme, and his hold pulls at her scalp, a bright glancing pain that she feels between her legs. “Hmm? What do you need, babe?”

Clarke looks up at him, blue eyes pleading.

He laughs, and it’s still early enough in this that it’s soft and amused, brown eyes warm behind his glasses. “You know that’s not how it works, Clarke. You have to ask.”

She swallows, mouth dry. 

“Use me,” she says, and it’s only her trust in him, the bone-deep intimacy that they share, that lets her get the words out, but nothing can stop the livid blush she feels rising in her cheeks, flooding across her chest. Bellamy’s eyes narrow then, something in his body shifting, rearranging, suddenly taller, broader, legs braced and widened. A predator, waking to hunt. A thrill runs through her, breathless like she used to get when she was fourteen, lifting cheap eyeliners from the 7-11 near her dad’s apartment.

“Yeah?” he says, checking, and she nods, already swaying back towards him, eyes fixed on the bulge in his sweatpants. 

He removes his hands from her, reaching up to take off his glasses, meticulously examing the lenses for dust before folding them and carefully setting them on the kitchen island. With the tip of a finger, he adjusts them, lines them up at a right angle to the edge of the countertop. 

Fuck, she loves him like this. Loves him every which way really, any way she can get him - the serious PhD student and TA, the easygoing best friend, the romantic and conscientious lover, hands kept strictly above the waist until the third date, until he had her loud and extremely enthusiastic consent. He’s a member of the GSA, blue Democratic card tucked in his wallet, all last semester spent compiling BLM reading lists and resources for his students. He recycles, carefully separating plastic from cardboard, washing out glass jars and stacking them by the sink, googling which milk alternatives have the least harmful environmental impact. And then, he is also this, when she wants. When she asks for it, politely. 

Clarke’s drifting already, floating away with her knees on the battered linoleum, and Bellamy pulls her back with a light slap across her jaw. Not hard, not near enough to hurt, but enough to make her inhale sharply, to want to put her hand between her legs. 

_A love tap_ , she calls them sometimes in her head, daydreaming about this at work, something dark and intimate dragged out under harsh fluorescent light, making her squirm in her chair, look up to see if anyone is watching her. _Just a little…love tap_. 

“Hey,” he says, low and dangerous. “You wanted my attention, babe? You’ve got it. Now give me yours.”

She gives him her gaze, soft and adoring. Touching herself is against the rules, she knows, if they can be said to have any rules for this at all, feeling their way through it together each time they do it, relying on nothing but body language and intuition to break their fall. Relief, reached by the skin of their teeth; some measure of blissful release, grasped with the tips of fumbling fingers. 

They should talk about this, some time when they haven’t both already lost their minds. Negotiate, draw up contracts, agreements, safewords. Clarke’s gathered that much, even if she’s never quite worked up the courage to research what this thing between them is, to put words to it in daylight, sketch out its shifting lines and limits. Never made it past the Google homepage, the accusatory blinking cursor, like someone tapping an impatient foot on the floor, arms crossed. _Well, what are you waiting for? This is the internet in 2021, you really think you’ve discovered something new?_

“You’ve been neglected, huh?” Bellamy says, less a question than a statement of fact. His hand is still on her jaw, holding her face upturned to his, and now he traces across her lips with his thumb, circling until she obediently opens her lips. He strokes across her tongue, hissing when she closes her mouth and sucks, cheeks hollowed, tasting ink. “You need it that bad? On your knees for it, begging for it?”

She can’t speak like this, and there’s no need to, not when he’s saying it all, knows it all already. 

“Well then,” he says, pulling his thumb out of her mouth. He gestures at his crotch, hands spread wide in invitation. “By all means.”

She pauses, faltering for a moment, and Bellamy’s mouth twists, mocking. “ _Now_ you’re shy?”

Clarke shakes her head, careful to hold eye contact as she uses both hands to pull his sweatpants down. His cock springs out, entirely hard now, thick around as her wrist, and _fuck_ , going on three years and she’s still not used to the size of it, bobbing slightly under its own weight. 

The sweatpants fall around Bellamy’s ankles and he steps out of them, kicking them away dismissively. Clarke reaches up for his cock and he catches her hand, squeezing her wrist just hard enough to hurt, to make her yelp, surprised. He shakes his head, once, the movement sharp, and tosses her hand away from him. 

“A real slut doesn’t use her hands.”

 _That_ hits her, harder than if he’d used his hand. She inhales, suddenly dizzy, and leans up on her knees, looking at him with questioning eyes as she steadies herself with her hands on the back of his thighs, just under his buttocks. Bellamy nods, permission granted, and Clarke wets her mouth, licks up the underside of his cock with the flat of her tongue. He groans, muscles flexing under her palms, and emboldened she covers the shaft with wet kisses, eyes sinking closed as she loses herself in the taste of him, still warm from sleep. 

“Eyes open, babe,” Bellamy reminds her, and she opens them immediately, holding his gaze as she finally catches the head of his cock in her mouth, careful to cover her teeth with her lips when she sucks, when she slowly, wetly swirls her tongue around him. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, hand tightening on the counter behind him, white knuckles in her peripheral vision, and pleasure bursts in her chest like fireworks, effervescent. She redoubles her efforts, pushing her mouth further down on his cock, wishing she could use her hand to cover what she can’t fit in between her lips - which is a lot.

Bellamy relaxes, leaning back against the kitchen island as she blows him, reaching down to stroke across her hair, her cheek, the wet stretch of her lips around him. The light touches inflame as much as they comfort, little shocks of sensation following the gentle movements of his hands, caressing, soothing, as one might fondly touch a beloved pet. 

“Look at you,” he says, and she trembles, pressing her thighs together. “So beautiful aren’t you, so pretty in your work clothes, hair all nice and neat. I bet all the guys in that office blow their fucking load when you walk in, that tight ass in that skirt, those fucking tits in that little blouse. All prim and proper. If only they knew, huh?”

His hand tightens in her hair suddenly, dragging her off him, and she _whines_ before she can stop herself, high and humiliating. Bellamy laughs, and she glares until he pulls sharply on her hair, a white arc shooting through her vision. 

“None of that, babe. Open your mouth for me, tongue out.”

Grabbing his cock in one hand - he doesn’t have any problems with the girth, she notices, his large hand encircling it easily - he slaps the head against her tongue with a wet sound, biting his lip as she watches. Her cheeks burn, eyes watering from the effort to keep them open, and her entire body is a live wire, sparking.

_“Can you believe it?” Raven laughs as she leans in over the table, raising her voice to make herself heard over the noise of the bar, either not noticing or not caring when she spills her drink, vodka splattering across the tabletop. The other girls at the table huddle in close, eyebrows raising, a collective gasp on their lips. Only Clarke remains still, heart pounding in her chest._

_“He asked me if I wanted to be spanked! I mean, tell me at the beginning if you’re into that freaky shit, y’know? Don’t make me waste time on a fucking weirdo! I left before he pulled out the gimp mask.”_

_Clarke reaches for a napkin and mops up the spill, careful not to meet anyone’s eye._

Slowly Bellamy pushes into Clarke’s mouth, cock riding easily over her wet tongue, and she tightens her lips around him, fluttering her tongue along the underside like she knows he loves. He groans, hips jerking, but then stills, pulling out. She doesn’t whine this time, but it’s close. 

“Uh uh,” he says, panting, shaking his head. “You wanna be _used_ , remember?”

Obediently she relaxes her mouth, letting her jaw go lax, and he thrusts lightly against her tongue, enjoying the slick friction, cock bumping against the back of her throat, hissing each time. Once he pushes too far - by accident or on purpose she doesn’t know, and that’s the point - and she gags softly as he holds in place, her throat muscles spasming around him. 

“Okay, now you can suck,” he says generously, magnanimously, and she closes her mouth around him gratefully, kissing and licking the broad head of his cock before bobbing her head on him. 

“What do you think they’d say, hmm? All those people you work with? So professional at work, my little ice queen, and here you are, so desperate for cock that you can’t even wait for me to pull my sweatpants down. All that time you spend on your hair, your make-up, dressing up so nice, and all you really want is to be ruined.”

Clarke looks up as she lowers her head on him, and he traces the outline of his cock through her cheek before taking her head between both his hands, fingers interlacing behind her skull. 

“Be good for me,” he warns, and then he’s thrusting deeper, all the way into her throat. She’s good at this now, after years of practice, and he slides in nice and easy, moaning. 

“Fuck,” he says, vicious, and yet his movements are not, calm and measured, firm but not violent or cruel. She lets her eyes drop for a moment to watch his toes curl against the linoleum, the hard muscles of his thighs bunching under her hands. He’s got thick thighs, powerful muscles from years of soccer and track, and he’s using every ounce of that power now, thrusting so hard that she’d topple over if not for his hands on her. _Use me_ , she’d asked, and he is, moving her head just how he likes it, guiding her on him so she doesn’t even have to think, have to do anything but exist. 

“This is what you were made for, isn’t it babe? My perfect little slut, born to be on her knees.”

Clarke floats on the feeling, her entire body shimmering, shattering, soaring. She doesn’t even need to touch herself when she feels like this, something beyond the simple peak of orgasm, a higher state without beginning or end, one long drawn note of pleasure and _pleasing_.

Bellamy thrusts harder, his entire cock in her throat now, her nose against his stomach, and one large hand leaves the back of her head to wrap around her throat. Not squeezing, not applying pressure, just resting his hand against her, letting her feel the weight and warmth of it, letting her know that he has her, is holding her, inside and out.

The linoleum creaks as his heels rock off the floor, one moment of unbearable pressure, stars behind her eyelids as she - doesn’t struggle for breath, there’s no struggle here - _rests_ without breath, and then he pulls back, pushing her away from him. 

Bellamy’s face is calm when Clarke looks up. She’d almost think him unaffected were if not for the frantic pulse of the vein in his throat, the sweat beading along his forehead. His freckles stand out stark along his cheekbones, and she doesn’t know if it’s the winter pallor of his skin that makes it more obvious than usual, or the hyperawareness that always follows breathplay, all her senses heightened.

“Up,” he says, and slowly she stands, almost stumbling into him, muscles weak after so long on the floor. He steadies her with his hands on her arms, then tilts her face up to look into her eyes, nodding to himself before he kisses her, deep and consuming. He tastes like coffee, and she lifts her hands uselessly, fingers fluttering in the air, not sure if she’s allowed to put her arms around his neck. 

_These women are part of the problem_ , she hears her mom say in her head, the memory of Abby disgustedly flicking through a newspaper article on the rise of BDSM erotic fiction. _Sexualising their own oppression, doing men’s job for them._

Bellamy ends the kiss slowly, lingeringly, teasing his lips over hers long after it’s ended. She opens her eyes to meet his, so close to hers, their mouths still touching, breath mingling. Then the world spins, or he spins her, and she’s being bent over the kitchen counter, large hands covering hers on the cool surface as she’s crowded from behind. 

“Shall we see if you enjoyed that?” he says, voice mocking, close in her ear. He steps back, hands lifting from hers, and she shivers as he reaches up under her skirt and pulls her panties down, the cool evening air rushing over her exposed cunt. He drops the panties on the counter in front of her - black lace, fabric glistening with her own wetness - and for a moment she is deaf and blind, blood roaring in her ears as though she were underwater, desire like crashing waves, pulling her into the darkness. 

Clarke comes back to herself as Bellamy kicks her legs apart, gasping as he thrusts two thick fingers up into her, sagging onto her elbows onto the counter. He works her hard but not clumsily, reaching around with his other hand to rub her clit, not saying a word. He doesn’t have to - in this she is now the architect of her own humiliation, filling the air with moans and whimpers, the wet sound of her own cunt as he fingers her. She knows that if she could turn around, she’d see him smiling, and it’s that thought that makes her groan, biting her lip as she pushes down against his fingers. 

She whimpers when he pulls his hand away, so close to coming, the pressure already drawing tight - and then his fingers are there, brushing across her parted lips.

“Suck,” he commands, but too late, because she’s already opened her mouth, sucking her own taste off his fingers. 

Bellamy laughs. 

“So needy, aren’t you babe? Do you think that people can see it, how desperate you are, how much you need my dick? You think your coworkers can tell, how much of a slut you are for me?”

He strokes his fingers briefly over her tongue before pulling his hand away, wrapping his fingers around her upper arms and forcing her to stand up straight. Clarke’s caught, trapped between the hard line of his body and the counter digging into her stomach, his cock a heavy weight against the small of her back. 

“Bet you don’t even realise you’re doing it, do you? It’s okay. It’s just the way you are, Clarke, just the way you were made. Bending over so everyone can see your ass, leaning down so that all those guys at work can see down your shirt.”

His voice is low and murmuring in her ear, soft and almost sweet despite his filthy words. As he talks he undoes her shirt, large fingers nimbly working the tiny pearl buttons, pulling the fabric out from the waistband of her skirt. He bites at her jaw as he pulls the shirt off, holding it gently between his teeth for a moment before kissing his way up to her ear, tugging at her earlobe. 

“Do you like it?” he asks. “Hmm? Like knowing that everyone wants you, that you’re driving everyone out of their fucking minds watching you? That you drive me out of my fucking mind, letting you walk out of here dressed like that, knowing how many men fantasise about screwing you, about getting a piece of you for themselves? Do you like,” and here he pauses, breathing harshly, hands tightening around her arms, pulling her back against him, grinding his hard cock against her, “do you like giving away what’s mine?”

He lets go of her arms, mouth falling to her neck, nipping at the delicate skin as he traces over her nipples through the lace of her bra, already tight and straining through the fabric. Clarke gasps, letting her head fall back against his shoulder, and roughly he yanks her bra cups down, the material sitting just under her breasts and pushing them even higher on her chest, propped up and obscene. 

“Squeeze your tits together,” he orders, and she pushes her arms together in front, creating a deep cleavage that he immediately attacks, cupping her breasts in his large hands, squeezing the soft flesh, tweaking her nipples with his fingers. She groans, her nipples sensitive and swollen, and feels his breath on her neck as he smiles, grinds against her again. 

“That’s my good girl,” he says, approving. 

Clarke is seeing in flashes now, brief glimpses of lucidity through the red mist fogging her brain, the rasping sound of her own breath in her ears. Like flipping through a stack of polaroids, every snapshot revealing a new detail: the chipped pale pink polish on the nail of her left index finger, the burn in the countertop where Bellamy had set a hot pan down two months ago, swearing as it scorched the cheap plastic, the half-eaten granola bar tucked between the Nespresso machine and an empty box of chamomile tea. She blinks; the under cabinet lighting strip flickers; blinks again; water drips into the sink from the leaking tap, hitting the stainless steel with a barely audible _plink_. 

Bellamy nips at her earlobe, lightly tracing around both her nipples, and she shudders, whines. Exhales, eyes falling shut as he finally lets go of her breasts, pushing her forward to lean over the counter again. Efficiently he strips her of her skirt - in her mind she takes the tally: shirt, _off_ ; skirt, _off_ ; panties, _off_ ; bra, still _on_ , but barely - kneeling down behind her to help her step out of the fabric. She needs his help, it turns out, legs shaking, the mind-body link struggling under the prolonged onslaught of sensation, and he has to lift each foot for her, fingers wrapping gently around the bones of her ankles.

When he stands up again it’s all skin to glorious skin: the warm length of his body pressed to hers, their legs entwined; his cock bumping against where she’s wet and open for him; the hard ridge of his knuckles against her inner thighs as he holds his cock steady. He traces over her cunt with the head, and she gasps, pushing back against him, desperate. 

“Please,” she says, and it’s a struggle even to form that one word, not because of her sore throat, or her breathlessness, but remembering how to speak at all, how to pull herself out of this state he’s pushed her into.

“Please, what?” he asks, polite and solicitious, and then he thrusts between her legs, the entire hard length of him rubbing against her cunt, bumping against her swollen clit. She almost swallows her tongue, it’s so good, but it’s not what she wants.

“Please.” Again, and he’s pulling back slightly, the head of his cock fitted against her cunt, so _close_. “Please, fuck me.”

Bellamy pushes forward, entering her, parting where she’s wet and swollen and _god_ so ready for him, one brief moment of relief and _bliss_ \- then he steps back again, his warmth, his body leaving her. She drops her head and whines, low and long like she’s being murdered, her fingers forming into claws against the smooth surface of the counter. 

“Shh,” he says, running a hand down the curved line of her back, stroking her buttock gently, then lightly spanking it. Clarke shakes, the light touch somehow both grounding her and sending her spiralling at the same time, profoundly overstimulated and yet - craving more. “I know what you need.”

His arm coming around her waist is all the warning she gets before he’s lifting her, so strong he can do it with one arm, clutching her tight against his body, her legs dangling uselessly in the air. He carries her like this into the bedroom, depositing her unceremoniously in front of the dresser that she uses as a vanity, the large gold-rimmed wall mirror she’d gotten for $20 on Facebook marketplace last year. 

Clarke lets Bellamy bend her over the dresser, even lets him wrap her fingers around the far edge, holding on obediently when he pats her hand and lets go, but she demurs when he tries to get her to look up into the mirror, keeping her face stubbornly downturned. Sighing heavily, sounding almost _put out_ , he clasps her jaw in his hand and digs his fingers in, forcing her face up, just a few inches from the mirror. 

“Don’t you want to see how pretty you are, babe?”

The woman staring back at her is - not someone she recognises. Just a few hours ago she was stood at this vanity, Bellamy sleeping soundly behind her, expertly applying eyeliner, highlighter, a perfect neutral lip in the early morning light. Now that same lip colour is rubbed off, her lips swollen and red, mascara clumped and running in black tear tracks down her cheeks. Her blonde hair, so carefully straightened and curled, is a frizzy mess, tangled and mussed by hands much larger and less careful than her own.

Bellamy lets go of her jaw, stepping back, and like watching a movie she follows his movements in the mirror, watches him admiring her, one hand casually fisting his cock. She bites her lip, the bottomless pit in her stomach yawning wide, and the woman in the mirror bites her lip too, slow and lascivious, blue eyes heavy-lidded.

“You see now?” he says, wandering close again, and time is working strangely again, her world fragmenting and shattering, feeling his body heat on her skin a split-second before she sees him approach. _Objects in miror are closer than they appear._ Bellamy kisses her neck slowly, holding eye contact with her in the mirror, laving his tongue across her throat and blowing cool air across the damp skin, and she both feels the pleasure and the pleasure of her own reaction to it, both within and outside her body at once, sensation echoing, reverberating, into infinity. 

“You see how beautiful you are like this? My little whore,” he says fondly, as if he were saying sweetheart or darling, any of the words that normal women crave. “This is just how you’re meant to be, isn’t it?”

Bellamy shifts, angles himself, glancing down, and then finally, _finally_ , he’s fucking up into her, sliding in so easy that she almost falls over, not from shock but from relief. She moans, eyes fluttering closed, and his hands slide up over her back, the nape of her neck, her shoulders, reaching under to sweep up over her ribcage, cup her breasts. He pulls back and thrusts in again, so hard that the entire dresser rattles, glass and metal tinkling, and she pushes back against him just as hard, meeting him with equal force, all the breath chased from her lungs as he bottoms out in her. 

“So beautiful,” he’s saying, sounding just as winded as she feels, and as he fucks her his hands never stop moving, never stop petting her, stroking her all over, like it was just as difficult for him to hold back as it was for her to wait, like he can’t keep his hands off her, doesn’t want to even try. “All those fucking guys chasing you, what do you think they’d say if they saw you now? Do you think they’d still want you, once they knew what a slut you really were? Do you think they could handle you, know what you need?”

Bellamy’s hands cease their wandering, one finding its way to Clarke’s hip, the other gathering her hair, wrapping it tightly around his fist. He tugs sharply, and she lifts her head, opening her eyes to the mirror, pupils blown wide. He thrusts so hard that the dresser tips dangerously, and she moans, watching her mouth open, swollen lips and a flash of pink tongue. Below her face she sees her tits, still propped up in that stupid bra, the soft lines of her tummy, flesh jiggling as Bellamy slams into her, his hips hitting her buttocks hard enough to bruise. The urge to come is winding tighter and tighter in her belly, his cock right up against where she’s most sensitive, most raw, pleasure tinged with pain so exquisite that it makes her fingers tingle, every nerve shivering and shimmering with pure sensation. 

“Tell me,” he says, and then he stops moving. _Stops moving_ , and she almost vibrates out of her goddamn body, trembling, so close to coming. “Tell me,” he repeats, eyes black and empty as they find hers in the mirror, his hand squeezing her hip, five tiny bruises in the shape of his fingerprints. “Could they handle you, do you think? Could any of those men give you what you need? Give it to you like this, hard like you need? Just like you need?”

Clarke shakes her head, but it’s not enough, she knows, Bellamy’s dark eyes blazing in the mirror as his mouth tightens into a thin white line, winding her hair tighter around his fist.

“No,” she gasps, moaning as her scalp burns, her legs shake. “Just you. Just you, Bellamy.”

He closes his eyes, swallowing heavily, hands releasing. “Just me,” he says, swallowing hard, throat working, and she can tell from the tightness of his voice that he’s at the very edge of his self-control, just as close to release as she is. “Just me, that’s right. That’s fucking right.”

He groans as he starts moving again, slower now but no less brutal, each hard thrust pulling a gasp from her dry throat; a series of tiny, wretched sounds, like she’s being rhythmically beaten. Her breath fogs the mirror in front of her, eyes wet and lips swollen; a bottle of perfume falls down the back of the dresser with a rattle, becoming lodged against the baseboard.

Bellamy’s hand leaves her hair; released, it falls around her face in a damp tangled mess, and she shudders as his fingers wrap around her throat. Their eyes meet in the mirror, her face lifting, and he bites his lip, tightening his grip infinitesimally, and that’s it, she’s gone, just the _suggestion_ of it enough to make her explode, body seizing and tightening as she’s overtaken by orgasm, vision blackening. 

Her climax tips Bellamy over the edge too, releasing his hold on her throat to wrap his arm around her chest, pulling her body up and tight against his, groaning as he comes, sagging against her. Weak from orgasm, bearing both their weight, her hold on the dresser fails, and it’s only his quick thinking, letting go of her hip just in time to brace his arm on the dresser, that stops them both from crashing down onto the hard surface. 

They stay like that for long seconds, both breathing hard, his wet face pressed against her neck. Eyes closed, Clarke feels rather than sees Bellamy open his mouth against her skin in the closest thing to a kiss he can manage, his arm tightening around her chest for a second before he lets go, carefully pulling himself up, a shock of cold air against the damp skin of her back. She hisses as he pulls out of her, sore.

This time Bellamy is careful when he picks her up - one arm at her back and the other under her knees, cradling her against his chest for the two or three steps to the bed. Already dozing off, slipping in and out of awareness, the next thing that Clarke feels is the cool cotton of the sheets rising to meet her, a soft pillow under her cheek, and she hums contentedly as the bed envelops her, as Bellamy envelops her, his big arms embracing her from behind. 

It’s not clear how long she sleeps - how long they sleep, bodies fitted close together, like nesting bowls - but when she opens her eyes the sun is setting, sky darkening around the edges, shadows lengthening across the wrinkled sheets. Bellamy’s arms are still tight around her, his knees notched close behind hers, and as she blinks awake he nuzzles against her neck, the hard point of his nose bumping against her skin. 

His hands are tender as he strokes across the red marks left by her bra, soothing. She doesn’t even remember him removing it.

_“Well, I just think there's something deeply wrong with these people,” the woman on the radio says, voice rising in pitch and volume. Clarke’s eyes flick up, distracted, and the guy behind the counter sighs as he holds his hand out for her library card, wriggling his fingers impatiently. “I think most normal human beings would ask, quite rightly, how can you claim to love your partner and want to treat them like that? They should be on a watchlist.”_

Clarke wriggles back against Bellamy, and his hand finds hers, fingers interlacing.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, voice hoarse, and yes she is, it turns out, stomach growling as she turns in his arms. Now they’re face to face, two heads on one pillow, and she smiles as she sees his hair, messy and sticking up against the sheets. He grins, rolling his eyes, and kisses her, sweet and lingering. 

“What do you want to order?”


End file.
